Beat the Devil's Tattoo
by dudeurfugly
Summary: Surviving alone, Carol finds herself looking after a teenager with a connection to the group she left behind. Earlier, in Woodbury, Merle's not entirely surprised to discover he's responsible for another Dixon running around Georgia. A sign from a past she tried to forget leads Carol on a journey to unite Daryl with the only living tie to Merle he has left.
1. Dog Tags

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just borrowing. **

**A/N: This takes place in season 4, with flashbacks to the season 3 timeline. The title comes from a song by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter One: Dog Tags**

Carol sat on the shore of a creek, soft clay and sand underneath her toes. Afternoon rays of sun fell through the canopy of trees and reflected off the water in front of her, bright enough to cause spots to dance across her vision. Droplets still clung to her hair, though the dampness on her skin had been soaked up by the heat. Perspiration took its place, making the fabric of her shirt cling to her abdomen. She didn't know how much time had passed since she'd ventured to the creek to wash up. Hours, maybe. Long enough for the loneliness she'd been trying to push away for the past week to come crawling up beside her. She felt it there like an entity, inescapable.

She was sure it would choke her if she didn't get her mind moving again. With a sigh, Carol pulled on her boots and stood, wiping grains of sand from her pants. She hitched the small bag she'd brought along onto one shoulder and headed into the woods, toward the road where she'd left the station wagon. The walk proved to do nothing in the way of easing her mind. She was, at least, glad she hadn't resorted to talking to herself. Carol hadn't heard her voice out loud in days. It was a terribly strange thing to be holed up in your thoughts, simply existing, wandering, surviving.

Quiet was what she had become accustomed to, a luxury that couldn't be found at the prison. Now, it was something she didn't want. She would have traded this solitude for the sound of Judith's crying or even the rattle of chain-link fence without a second thought. But Carol continued on, carrying her isolation like it was her penance. Sometimes, she felt as though she deserved it.

Rick assured her she would find other people and survive. He was right, she would survive because she believed she could now. She had a strength inside her that built up overcoming hardship. He was wrong, however, on one account. She could find another group just fine. But she would never find people like that again, people who mattered to her because they bore the same hardships, people she loved and suddenly had to let go of without a goodbye. Carol wouldn't find another family. She couldn't. Something like that was irreplaceable.

Carol had lost all semblance of family twice since the world ended. She wouldn't put herself through that again.

Stepping over a downed tree trunk plastered in moss, Carol paused. Hunting walkers for nearly two years had made her keenly aware of their presence. Past the rustle of leaves and birdsong, there was shuffling feet. Her whole body tensed. She stood still, listening. The patterns held no purpose, no confident stride—a clear giveaway. Carol flattened her back against a tree, the bark digging through her shirt. She searched for them.

A hunched shoulder appeared up ahead, followed by a skeletal back, skin sagging off bones. Two decomposed bodies dragged themselves forward on instinct. They'd latched onto something, noses upturned to catch the scent. They weren't hunting for Carol, which meant there was another living thing in the vicinity that had managed to catch their attention. Still pressed up against the tree, Carol took the knife from her belt and clutched it until her knuckles turned white. The walkers hobbled together, knocking into each other, hungry groans lifting into the air. Keeping her footfalls light, Carol shoved off the tree trunk and advanced, quickly. Silently.

The first walker barely leaned forward to seek out its prey when Carol's knife drove through the back of its skull. A sickening crack rendered the walker limp and sent blood splattering onto Carol's neck. She yanked her knife out of the corpse only to plunge it through the second walker's eye socket, a grunt escaping her lips as she threw her weight forward. Grabbing its tattered clothing, she made sure the blade lodged itself through the brain, rivulets of crimson-black blood spilling down its face. The walker dropped at Carol's feet, leaving her breathing hard, the rush of adrenaline making her pulse pound in her ears. The pungent odor of rot and congealed blood assailed the fresh air.

It wasn't until she'd taken a moment to compose herself that she saw what the walkers had been preoccupied by.

Someone was propped up against a tree trunk across from her, head drooped, chest rising and falling as if asleep. Light brown hair obscured a proper view of their face, but Carol was almost certain it was a young woman.

Tentatively, Carol lowered herself into a crouch in front of her. She didn't seem to be hurt, didn't have any indication of a bite. Carol took one of her hands between her own, studying her calloused skin and dirt encrusted nails. There was a steady pulse under Carol's fingers, slow and even. She was sleeping. Carol couldn't quite believe the idea—sleeping through a walker attack? She'd made herself easy prey.

Carol shook the girl's shoulder. She tried to go about it as gently as she could, but the moment the girl's head lifted she flinched and pulled away, backing up into the tree trunk like she wanted to burrow inside it. Carol was met with wide, frightened blue eyes. The girl let out a shudder of a breath, her sandy brunette hair fluttering in front of her face. A moment later, the girl unsheathed a bayonet at her hip, the blade hovering below Carol's chin in an immediate defensive position.

The girl couldn't have been older than Beth, probably around seventeen underneath that layer of grime and sweat on her face. Her clothes were filthy, her hair was tousled, and her lips were so dry they were cracked. It looked as though she'd been on her own out here for quite awhile. Aside from the bayonet, she was adequately armed—Carol saw a handgun in a holster on her belt, as well as a hunting knife. An overstuffed, Army-grade knapsack sat beside her. Carol wouldn't have been surprised to find her entire life—what was left of it, anyway—packed up in that thing. They'd all been through hell and back twice over, but this girl had no business being out in the world alone like this.

Carol put her bloody knife back into its proper place and held up her hands in surrender. She tried hard not to think about the blade near her throat. This girl might have been Beth's age, but this wasn't Beth. A steely glint had replaced the fleeting mix of confusion and shock.

"It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you."

It sounded odd to Carol to hear her own voice. There was a hoarse quality from disuse.

The girl's gaze traveled to the decomposed heap of tangled limbs behind Carol. And at last, she lowered the bayonet and put it back where it belonged.

"What…happened?" Carol strained to hear the girl's question.

"You slept through a walker attack," Carol said. "If I hadn't been here, you'd have been bit. You ought to be more careful."

Something that looked like anger flashed in the girl's eyes, only for a second, until it disappeared completely. She nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. To be honest, I don't remember doing it. Got so weak…" She leaned into the tree and swiped the back of her hand across her forehead.

"How long since you've slept?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Ran out of water a day ago. Haven't eaten in…I don't know, a while."

The weariness had slipped back in, slurring her words together, provoking that Georgian drawl. Carol knew she looked about ready to fall asleep again or pass out cold from exhaustion.

"I've got a place not far from here, a car waiting on the road," Carol offered. She could hear that maternal tone lacing her words and found she couldn't help it. "You interested?"

"Managed to get myself this far," she said. "I'll be fine."

"Not like this you won't." The girl shrunk away from Carol's concerned look. "You nearly got killed sleeping. I can get you a decent meal, you can rest until you're stronger." The girl tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Let me help you."

"I'm all right," the girl insisted. She pulled herself up on unsteady feet and found her balance with the help of the tree trunk. She shouldered her backpack, trying to convince Carol she wasn't struggling under its weight. There was nothing she could do to hide the shadows of inadequate sleep beneath her eyes, the ashen pallor and scrawniness of malnutrition. Carol felt powerless, unable to let go of the miserable thought of this girl wasting away from starvation or succumbing to a walker bite. She'd be dead before the thought even registered.

"There's a creek up ahead," she called out to the girl's retreating form. "You should get yourself some water."

"Thanks," she called back. Her voice shook. "Nice job with those biters. I appreciate it."

_Biters_. The familiarity of the term knotted something in Carol's stomach.

Instead of turning her back on the girl, Carol watched her. Her steps were slow, labored. She clung to tree trunks in a desperate attempt to remain upright. Not more than several feet later, she wavered, lost her footing, and collapsed on her side. Motionless.

Before the realization that she'd fallen unconscious settled in, Carol bolted toward her and dropped to her knees. She tugged off the girl's backpack, hoisting it onto her own shoulders, and rolled the girl onto her back. Her cheeks were flushed from what little exertion she had managed. Gingerly, Carol gathered the girl into her arms, stumbling back until she adjusted to the weight. She hadn't carried anyone like this since…well, it had been a lifetime ago.

She surprised herself by making the trek from the woods to the car parked on the side of the road with a fully grown teenager cradled against her chest. Sweat pooled at the small of her back and her arms trembled by the time she laid the girl down in the backseat. Carol made the drive back to the tiny neighborhood where she'd made shelter, peering at the teenager in the rearview mirror every five minutes.

* * *

The suburban two-story home had sage green siding and a severely overgrown front yard. Ceramic pots that once held an array of colorful flowers had shattered all over the lawn. There was a spider web-like crack in the center of the front window. When Carol had first scoped it out, the front door had been wide open and she'd been lucky to find it blissfully walker-free. A walkthrough had revealed the previous homeowners to be a newlywed couple. Carol had tossed their framed photographs into a dusty cardboard box and shoved it in a hall closet.

Carol made sure the house had remained free of roaming corpses before she carried the teenager over the threshold, nudging the door shut with her hip. A flight of stairs opposite the front door led up to the master bedroom, a full bathroom, and a second, smaller bedroom. The place had been astonishingly neat, but Carol's quest to keep herself busy had provoked a cleaning spree. She'd scrubbed the bathroom, made the beds with fresh—albeit a little musty from abandonment—sheets out of the linen closet. She was thankful now that she'd tidied up both bedrooms and not just the master bedroom she'd been sleeping in.

She laid the girl on top of the sheets of the twin bed, not exactly surprised she hadn't stirred thus far. Her chest rose and fell in a stable rhythm, assuring Carol she was mostly all right. When she awoke, Carol would make feeding her and getting her hydrated the top priority. She unclasped the belt holding the girl's weapons and set it on a nearby dresser, then went to work untying her muddy brown combat boots. Carol dropped those at the foot of the bed and fixed the pillows before disappearing down the hallway.

Carol returned with a basin of water, setting it on the nightstand. Pulling up an armchair next to the bed, she soaked a washcloth and wrung it out so the water didn't run everywhere. With a tender hand, she used the lukewarm washcloth to wipe the dried sweat and dirt from the girl's face. Carol tried not to think about the maternal pull she was feeling toward this girl, tried not to dwell too much on where she'd come from or what family she'd lost.

She didn't even know the girl's name. Maybe it was for the best. It was easier, that way. She'd be able to let go.

Carefully, she unzipped the teenager's ragged light purple hooded sweater. Her cheeks were still pink, and if she kept that sweater on in the house where the temperature climbed up to stifling, she'd overheat. Carol slipped her arms from the sleeves and tossed it to the end of the bed. A metallic chain slid to the side, jostled around her neck from the movement, and whatever was at the end of it clanked together.

Carol paused, lowering the washcloth once she realized it wasn't a pendant. She lifted the pair of dog tags up so she could see them. For a second, she thought they were fake, one of those things kids got made up for themselves. Another second left her wondering if she'd misjudged the girl's age and she'd been a soldier before all this. But they didn't belong to the girl. The tags were officially engraved—religion, blood type, social security number, and a name. Carol's eyes lingered on the name. She read it probably five or six times before it registered and made her stomach drop.

_Dixon, Merle_.


	2. Mae

**Disclaimer: Just borrowing. I only own my OC. **

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews and putting this story on your alerts and favorites! Let me know what you think of chapter two!**

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**Chapter Two: Mae **

She was going to carve a path into the floor if she continued to pace any longer.

Carol moved back and forth down the upstairs hallway in front of the open door of the spare bedroom, head bowed, arms hugged across her body. She brought a hand up to her mouth, fingers shaking. Stealing a glance at the slumbering form in the bed, a million and one questions raced through her mind.

This new information was a burden.

Carol found herself stuck between curiosity and a vehement want to forget what she'd seen entirely, shove it aside like everything else. She'd spent her seclusion trying to sever the emotional ties to the group and let go. Move on. It hurt like hell, left her with tear-stained pillowcases at night, but it was necessary if she wanted a chance to go forward. The result made her numb—maneuvering through her days on autopilot, surviving because she had to, existing because that's all that was left.

She didn't want this. Carol willed the name and everything attached to it away. That wasn't her life anymore—she was slowly beginning to accept that. She had to. It was necessary. Stifling a sob into her palm, she backed against a wall and slid down it, sitting with her back against the solid surface. Elbows propped on her drawn up knees, Carol took a few breaths. Fate had dealt her another cruel hand. She wasn't sure why she deserved this one.

_Merle Dixon. _

…_Dixon._

The name still clung to her thoughts stubbornly. Without dwelling too much, Carol sifted through her mind and pulled out everything she'd garnered from her brief conversation with the girl. Facts were good. Facts didn't come wrapped up in emotional attachment.

_Bayonet. Biters. Dog tags. _

This girl had come from Woodbury. For the life of her, Carol couldn't figure out why she hadn't ended up at the prison with the rest of the town's survivors.

She'd been entrusted with a pair of dog tags belonging to Merle Dixon. This baffled Carol beyond anything else. Merle didn't make friends, wouldn't have given a teenage girl the time of day.

Carol never remembered Merle owning dog tags. Then again, she never really got close enough to notice. She'd made a point to stay out of his way and hoped he would quit dragging Dar—

Her hands clenched into fists.

_Stop thinking. Stop. _

There was no tie to the girl, nothing sentimental about it. She could have easily stolen them. A stupid idea—Carol chided herself for the explanation, but she refused to concede to another alternative.

She didn't _want _to know.

Woodbury survivor or not, the girl was a stranger. A stranger who carried a huge coincidence around her neck. But then, Carol supposed, the apocalypse had been like that from the start—had a strange way of bringing certain people together.

This was an instance, a thing Carol would reflect upon in passing and dismiss as a weird twist of post-apocalyptic fate.

That was all.

The girl would never have to know Carol recognized the name there. Carol would let her recuperate, give her adequate supplies, maybe a map, and send her off like she'd been so determined to do before. She wasn't responsible for the girl and she wasn't going to hold her back. It wasn't her place to decide.

She had to keep moving.

* * *

The sun had turned orange, the shadows shifting across the bedroom walls in exaggerated shapes, when Carol returned with a tray in her hands. A ray of light fell across the girl's face, turning the blonde strands in her light brunette hair into gold tumbling over the pillows. She had the back of her arm draped over her face, body curled up on her side like something Carol thought a kitten might do. Her breathing was too quick to be enveloped in sleep; as soon as Carol's foot moved onto a squeaking floorboard, the girl flinched. She withdrew her arm, squinting at Carol through the slat of sunlight. She hadn't quite shaken off the grogginess.

Familiarity coiled in the pit of Carol's stomach, only for a second.

"I brought you something to eat," Carol said. She set the tray onto the nightstand, watching the girl pull herself up into a sitting position against the mountain of pillows. The teenager observed Carol as if keeping her at arm's length. "It's vegetable soup—just something simple to make sure you can keep it down. I don't know how long it's been since you've had a decent meal."

Steam rose up from a china bowl pattered around the brim with blue flowers. Letter-shaped noodles drifted in the mix of broth and diced vegetables. When Carol had found the matching set of plates and mugs in the cupboard, she'd been reminded of the engagement photos in the living room caked in a layer of dust.

She untucked a bottle of water from her arm and placed it next to the tray. "You're dehydrated, make sure you drink that."

Carol crossed the room to pull the drapes, blocking the sun from the girl's eyes. The crinkle of plastic behind her was the only indication she'd followed Carol's instruction. When she turned back, the teenager's gaze locked on the bowl of hot soup, transfixed in an expression that sent a painful jolt through Carol's chest. It was the look of someone who held genuine appreciation but also couldn't fathom the idea of a hot meal. An act of kindness from someone whose name you didn't know. There was something else in her steel blue eyes that gave the notion of guilt.

"Go ahead," Carol told her. "You can eat."

Hesitantly, she pulled the tray into her lap, replacing the half-downed bottle of water onto the nightstand.

She blew into a spoonful of soup. "Thank you."

Her voice seemed stronger than before, but quiet. Carol settled into the armchair she'd moved near the window, finding herself unable to leave the girl alone. Despite her reservations and constant warring thoughts, she couldn't deny the new sense of purpose she felt in taking care of another person again. There was in pain in it, but the content expression on the girl's face broke through that, for now.

"It's good," the teenager said. She ate slowly, lingering on every spoonful.

"I imagine anything's good when you haven't eaten," Carol said. "It's nothing, really. Doesn't take much to heat up something in a can."

"Probably took you a lot to get me out of the dirt to this place," she countered. "That's not nothing."

Carol shrugged, at a loss for a response. Had the girl really expected to be left in the dirt?

"I don't think I've had alphabet soup since I was a kid," she said.

"I haven't made it for anyone in years, either," Carol replied, and immediately wanted to kick herself.

She dug her fingernails into the inside of her arm, pushing the faint memory away before it had a chance to fully materialize.

_Too close. _

Carol made the attempt to cut that invisible string of maternal instinct dragging her forward in a relentless fashion.

The teenager pressed the bowl to her lips, tipping the remnants of the broth into her mouth, her thumb in place to keep the spoon from sliding forward. She peered over the bowl's brim at Carol sheepishly when she realized she'd been slurping the broth down in a rather unladylike manner, hunger outweighing anything else.

This girl was making it so very difficult to let go—to not care, not remember.

"It's all right," Carol said, the tiniest hint of laughter coloring her voice. "There's more in a pot on the stove if you'd like it."

"You're not having any?"

"Maybe later. I haven't had much of an appetite lately."

"I'd hate to eat all your food…you've done too much for me already—"

"A can of soup won't hurt," Carol assured. She took the tray from her, resting it against her hip. "You keep drinking that water. I'll bring up another bottle, too."

"I'll help you clean up, after," the teenager offered. "Then I'll get going and be out of your way."

A thin frown appeared on Carol's lips. "It's nearly dark." She glanced at the window as if emphasizing her point. "You should stay the night and get your strength back, leave at first light."

_You have to let her go. She wants this. _

_You know you can't leave her by herself. Not at night. She's still weak._

…_I'm not her mother. _

_She doesn't have anyone. _

_Neither do you. _

The girl lapsed into silence, mulling over the proposition, appearing as conflicted as Carol was. She knew, through those hardened thoughts, that the nurturing part of her couldn't let this girl go out there by herself. No matter how much she tried to make herself not care, it was impossible—by her very nature, Carol's compassion happened to be her biggest strength and sometimes her downfall. It was so ingrained it couldn't be forgotten or cut out. But she would try, because right now, it still stung. Carol believed she couldn't afford to be that way anymore. It cost her far too much.

"At least think about it." She didn't want to entertain the relief she'd feel if the girl declined.

"I will."

Carol had made it to the threshold of the bedroom when the girl spoke up again:

"What's your name?" she asked. "You got me here, made me soup, I should probably know what to call you, to thank you properly."

Against what she figured was her better judgment, she gave up her name willingly.

"It's Carol," she answered. "Carol Peletier."

And belying her promise not to get attached, Carol asked, "Yours?"

"Mae Dixon."

The girl's response—effortless and entirely confident—provoked a chill up Carol's spine. Her shoulders tensed, but she doubted the teenager would notice.

Carol forced the tremble out of her voice. "It's nice to finally know your name."

"Thank you, Carol." She played with the dog tags around her neck, as if avoiding the sincerity of her own words. Carol cringed more from the name she knew was on them than the noise itself. "For helping me. Thank you. Being out there alone, you forget how kind some people can be."

Carol nodded and ducked out the door—a violent need for escape clawing its way in. She felt terrible for it, especially since the girl's words were heartbreaking, but the nauseous wave of panic had collided with every wall Carol had built up, protecting herself from caring about this teenager.

This teenager who now had a _name_, and not just any name at that.

* * *

She let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding the moment the tray clattered onto the kitchen counter. Carol gripped the edge of the countertop, thankful to ease her weight into it. She pressed a hand to her forehead and sniffled, retreating back into her habit of frantic pacing to release her internalized panic. Finally, she sunk down into a chair and held her face in her hands, rubbing her index fingers over her temples.

"Oh, my god."

Her mind's stubborn insistence told her the name was another coincidence, maybe a title the girl had adopted as her own. But that theory didn't hold much weight.

_Don't get attached. Let her go. _

How could she possibly think that now?

"Oh, my god…"

_Dixon, Merle. _

_Mae Dixon. _

The Merle Dixon Carol had known was crass, racist—the epitome of obnoxious redneck trash. She'd cringed every time he opened his mouth and she hated him for setting foot inside the prison, sacrificial last play be damned. He'd done a lot of awful things.

At first, Carol couldn't see the resemblance. There was no way a person so loathsome could be responsible for someone like Mae. But then Carol remembered the look in Mae's eyes—those _blue eyes_—when she'd held Carol at bayonet point—the same dangerous expression she'd seen flash across Merle's face many times. Other than that, Carol hadn't allowed herself to get close enough to find much else.

Or maybe she didn't want to see it.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, swiping her thumb underneath her bottom lip. Forcing herself up from the chair, Carol crossed her arms over her chest and stood in the middle of the kitchen as if it would help the information process better. She'd been trying so very hard to take care of this girl and send her off, fully invested in never connecting herself to another human being in this barren world again. That no one could possibly mean as much to her as the ones she'd left.

But this was so much more than a twist of post-apocalyptic fate. Carol didn't want it. She couldn't hold this burden sitting heavily on her chest.

…_A daughter_.

That was it, wasn't it? Not once had she heard either of them speak of any other living relatives—sisters, cousins…nothing. That was it, had to be.

Carol scoffed at the idea of _Merle Dixon_ being a father. An illegitimate child—one he'd conveniently never mentioned while at the prison—of his was easy enough to believe when she took account of his leering smirks and snide innuendoes he'd deemed flirting. He seemed the type to get around without a regard to consequence. But a _father_? Not a chance, not after he'd have likely made his younger brother into a carbon copy of his abrasive, less-than-charming personality.

A lot of these puzzle pieces didn't make sense and it was making Carol irrationally angry at Merle Dixon.

…_Merle's dead. _

She had been too preoccupied stewing in her own deep-seated aggravation at the mere mention of his name to completely forget _he was gone_ and this girl—_Mae_, her mind forced her to stick to the name—probably didn't know it.

Carol made a noise halfway between a sob and a groan of utter misery. She felt no loyalty to Merle; she acknowledged his last-ditch effort to help their group, but her connections to him were nonexistent.

There was, however, someone else.

_No. No, no, no. Stop thinking. That's not your life anymore. _

_You can't let her go now. You can't abandoned her. _

_She wants to get out of here—_

_She's probably looking for someone who won't be found. He's gone. _

_Mae's not mine. _

_She's Daryl's niece. His family. _

The thought had tumbled out before Carol had the chance to shove it aside. She shook her head, forcing everything else to stay put, buried deep.

_I can't be responsible for her._

She had to stop this; she couldn't drag herself back in.

It hurt too much.

* * *

After polishing off the rest of the vegetable soup, and Carol saw that she was sufficiently rehydrated, Mae fell into a solid sleep. Carol had peeked into the bedroom to check on her out of habit, but now she kept her distance. Night surrounded the house, darkening the rooms, quiet settling in so heavy it could have been suffocating. She hadn't been able to sleep for hours and instead curled up on the couch in the living room, a book in her lap. Carol read the words without being able to concentrate on them, candles flickering warm light on the pages.

It had to have been early in the morning by rough estimation. Carol felt tired-eyed, but she knew her mind wouldn't shut up enough to allow her a chance to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, the floorboards in the upstairs hallway groaned. Carol pushed the book out of her lap, where it toppled onto the couch cushion, crinkling the pages. She stood, listening to the soft protest of the wood under careful footsteps. They moved to the stairs, one loud squeak in particular met with a sharp, four-letter expletive.

By the time Carol rounded the corner from the living room to the staircase, Mae was three steps from the bottom. Dressed once again in her tattered lilac hoodie, boots, and fully armed, she looked horribly caught when Carol appeared. She had one hand on the banister, the other splayed against the wall, her backpack dangling off her shoulder precariously. She hitched the backpack up onto her shoulder, an indignant scowl visible in the dark. Her hair curtained her face as she glanced down at the floor.

"I kind of hoped you'd be asleep," Mae confessed.

Carol was stunned at how the statement dug at her. She shouldn't have been.

"So, that was your plan? Sneak out?"

"I did leave you a note."

Mae took Carol's non-reply as being offended. To be honest, Carol wasn't sure what she felt.

Quickly, Mae backpedaled. "I'm sorry. I couldn't—it's better if I go. I appreciate all you've done, but I'm okay on my own. Really."

_Just let her go. _

_It wouldn't be right. _

_She's not your responsib—_

"Stay," Carol said. "The sun will be up in a few hours. I can send you off with supplies, and you'll travel better by light. The thought of you out there in the dark…"

_No. Oh, no. Don't go there. Don't concern yourself. _

Mae relaxed her stance, lifting her hand off the wall, still clinging to the banister. Carol could see she didn't know what to do with the statement. "I'll be fine. I've gotten by at night for a while now. It's a pain in the ass, but it's not anything new."

The next question came from some far-off territory Carol was trying to avoid at every cost. In the haze of confliction emotion, it managed to push its way forward.

"Do you have anyone out there?" she asked. "Anyone at all?"

What a cruel thing, to have to play dumb.

"Maybe," she admitted. "I don't know. There's supposed to be, but…I don't know. It's complicated, I guess." Mae dug the heel of her palm into her eye, warding off traces of sleep. She shook her head, shrugged a shoulder. "You don't need to worry about it, you've helped me plenty. I'll figure it out."

"Mae—"

Whatever Carol would have made up her mind to say was cut short by a cracking sound coming from the back of the house. A crunching, grating noise that pierced through the still night.

Carol's hand flew to the knife at her hip. Both their heads turned to the direction of the disturbance; in the corner of her vision, Carol saw Mae's fingers curl around the hilt of her bayonet. Mae eased her backpack down onto a step and trailed Carol, wordlessly, through the darkened house to the back door in the kitchen. On her first night in the house, Carol had used some thin wooden planks pilfered out of the crawlspace to board it up. There were two windows on either side of the door, covered by dingy lace curtains, providing a view into the fenced-in backyard.

Or, rather, the _formerly _fenced-in yard.

"Shit," Carol muttered under her breath, at the same time Mae let slip a quiet gasp.

The wooden pickets had been split, toppled over by bodies pressed against them in their relentless pursuit to force their way in.

A horde.


	3. Overrun

**Disclaimer: Just borrowing. **

**A/N: The pre-Woodbury/Woodbury timeline of Mae's journey will be told parallel to her journey with Carol. Here we start to get a bit of backstory for her. Thanks to everyone for reading and your favorites/follows. Drop me a line to let me know how I'm doing! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Overrun **

It had been some time since Mae had seen a proper neighborhood infested like this.

Standing there at the back window, watching the bodies in various stages of decomposition shamble through the split fence, pulled her back to the early days. Those memories usually stayed dormant in her mind, tossed in a dusty box in a dark corner somewhere she couldn't help but peeking at when she felt herself hanging on by a thread. Not all of it was bad; there were a few rays of sunshine to keep her morale going.

Mae remembered the panic, the confusion, the absolute hysteria that swept across everything they once knew and utterly obliterated it. Reports of a scattered unidentified outbreak kept her out of school, absorbed in what little work the teachers could pass along through the internet, and racking up an incredible phone bill talking to her best friend about _people getting sick and biting other people_.

As if the homework really mattered, in the end. As if any of this was going to get better and Mae's last contact with her best friend wouldn't have been by voice only: _I feel like shit. I'll text you later, okay?_

Mae waited for a text that didn't come. She carried her phone until the satellites went down. She couldn't shake off the nightmare of her best friend tearing her parents' skin off with her teeth—blood and gore dribbling down her chin.

At some point, Mae stopped sleeping alone in her room and curled up in her favorite armchair downstairs, phone clasped in her fist. The news reports stopped, the television channels filled with generic alert messages until they swam in gray static. Her aunt retreated to the couch, a glass of wine next to their radio, knitting needles in her lap. She worked her fingers silently, ignoring the sounds that had overtaken their once calm, upscale neighborhood full of cookie-cutter identical homes. A crack of a gun or bloodcurdling scream would rip through their street, sending a jolt through her body and provoking a teary-eyed gaze toward their darkened windows.

Her uncle circled the inside perimeter of the house, pushing their furniture against every available exit and boarding up windows with plywood. Mae thought he looked ridiculous, still dressed in his good work clothes—tie and all—barricading his home like it would last. He'd been determined from the start to wait it out. Her aunt had agreed, though hesitantly. Mae saw her resolve slip every time the situation grew worse, sending them on a downward spiral toward the Dark Ages.

Mae knew it wouldn't hold out. They would either face starvation or get themselves bit by those things. Maybe her aunt had already realized this. Maybe she didn't want to fight.

It sounded easier to give up. For awhile, Mae did just that—she lay awake at night on top of a sleeping bag in the living room, her aunt and uncle still tucked away in their bedroom as if the world hadn't ended. She listened to the neighbors fighting their way out, their voices turning to screams, frightened children calling in panic. She heard them being bit—_attacked_. Mae wondered when she'd be next, when they'd finally break through and end it.

Something challenged that thought. The more Mae listened, the harder something else rivaled her default notion to wait for what she assumed was the inevitable. Mae couldn't name it, but she grappled with an instinct that told her to _run_. _Survive._ When, exactly, had she given up before? After all the crap she'd dealt with, she was still breathing, wasn't she?

Mae wasn't content to wait. Not anymore.

Soft, hazy light floated through the cracks in the boarded windows while Mae paced her bedroom, stuffing essentials in her school backpack. She didn't know what you were supposed to pack when everything suddenly went to shit and you'd never return home again.

This wasn't like the first time.

Mae supposed most of her belongings were frivolous, but allowed herself two bottles of her favorite nail polish—gifts from her best friend, last Christmas—and her good, hardcover copy of _A Little Princess_ squeezed between clothes and toiletries. Mae shrugged into her best friend's light purple zip-up hoodie she'd meant to return at their next sleepover. _Erin _was printed in her curvy signature on the inside tag, a small inked-in heart beside it. She moved to her dresser next, yanking open the top drawer. Reaching in, she uncovered a set of dog tags and slipped the chain over her head.

Her fingers traced the engravings she'd long since memorized, a name attached to a face she could only conjure in her imagination. It was probably the most sentimental object she owned that she'd carried along to her new life. Now that another life was beginning again, Mae couldn't go without it.

By the time she appeared in the kitchen, packed and ready for whatever happened to be next, Mae realized she actually had no idea what she was doing—no fancy escape plan, no survivalist skills to speak of. Her uncle looked up at her from his spot at the table—dressed in business attire, like he couldn't let go of the routine—and gave a long-suffering sigh. He rubbed at his temples, his jaw set in that way Mae was uncomfortably familiar with.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked. Mae hated his tone, dripping in condescension.

His dark eyes bore into her, expectant. And she froze, all her words and determination to _get out, run, survive_, were trapped in her throat.

"I asked you a question, and I'm going to get an answer," he pressed. "Where do you think you're going? What, you just expect to walk out of the house?"

Mae couldn't speak. She opened her mouth and closed it again when nothing happened. Heat crept to the tips of her ears.

She hated herself for it.

"Fine," he continued, the simple word an antagonistic test. "Walk out there and see how far you get. If you're bit by one of those things, it won't be on my conscience."

"_Jack_," came her aunt's warning, quiet, from her place by the counter.

"No," he said. "If she wants to go, I'll let her. She's a big girl. Right? Aren't you, Mae?"

She shrunk away from his taunts, crumbling further and further inside herself. Her cheeks were pink, she was sure of it.

"Sixteen years old, making your own decisions, calling the shots. If you think it's so much better out there than here, you can walk out that door. But you're not coming back."

"Jack," her aunt repeated, softer. Her voice was like a cool afternoon rain in comparison. She went to Mae's side, placing a hand on her arm for a moment. "I think she has a point. We're only going to last for so long. Before you know it, we'll be out of food, water… We should consider leaving. There's probably shelters in place in the city—we could start there."

He got up from the table, a quick, harsh action that sent Mae a few steps backward out of habit. She flinched, but her aunt's light touch on her back kept her reassured.

"We're not leaving, do you hear me?" he asked. "We stay." He waved his hand at Mae like she was an afterthought. "She can go if she's so convinced she'll get down the street without getting herself killed."

"You don't mean that—"

"Don't tell me what I don't mean," he said, voice rising. Mae watched a vein in his forehead pop out. "We've got a good thing here, in this house. Out there, who the hell knows what we'll get. _We wait_. They have to be sending the National Guard or the Army or something soon. They'll tell us where it's safe. For now, we've got a roof over our heads and there's still food in the cupboards. We're fine. If Mae wants to be an ungrateful bitch—"

"Jack!"

He stepped forward, ignoring his wife's protest, his fingers wrapping around Mae's wrist. His hands were so much bigger—she could feel him digging in, cutting off the blood flow. He wrenched her forward, towering over her. Purple shaded his lower eyelids, and suddenly Mae wondered how long it had been since he'd had decent sleep.

"I've given you _everything_," he spat. "I gave you a home, put your sorry white trash ass through the best schools in the state, and this is how you repay me when the world's gone to shit? By telling me what to do in my own house and making a run out the door? This is what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

His grip on her arm tightened, forcing a small cry from her lips. "You leave me, your aunt…you've got nothing. Not a blessed thing in this whole world. You'll be turning into one of those things and you'll find yourself thinking, 'Oh, I guess Uncle Jack was right.' So, go ahead, _Dixon_. The door's open if you think you could make it."

He only called her Dixon when he was really, _really_ pissed at her.

He dropped her arm and immediately Mae worked the feeling back into her hand. She stood there, trying to put as much distance between herself and him as humanly possible. Her aunt had gone silent, stone-faced—the only flaw Mae had been able to find in the woman. Mae stayed like that, not moving, unable to scrounge up the words to defend herself.

Mae felt the sting of his open palm against her cheek before she saw it happen. She should have anticipated it. It was something she'd scold herself for, later. She was numb to it; she barely discerned the scrape of his wedding band along her skin. Backed up against the counter, Mae was unable to find the distance she wanted because of the backpack on her shoulders. Her aunt had returned to the dishes in the sink, needlessly washing them to drown out the blows that would leave reddened, bruising welts on Mae's arms and torso and blood from her nose.

* * *

The snap of gunfire—steady shots, from a single source, she realized—woke Mae up. She blinked, allowing the sterile, angular lines of the bathroom to come into focus. She dug the heel of her palm into her eye, flinching when she came in contact with the bruise she was sure colored the space above her eyebrow. A shift in position where she sat in the porcelain clawed-foot bathtub made her muscles protest. Her neck was stiff, her body sore from the previous day's abuse.

At least she was still breathing.

Somehow, she always ended up here, sleeping in the bathtub, when this happened. Avoiding her uncle like the plague. Licking her wounds. Throwing on a band-aid like it would actually help.

She woke in a pit of self-loathing every time.

Mae pushed herself up, wincing the whole way. She lifted a leg over the side and promptly fell on her ass.

"Son of a bitch," she cursed through gritted teeth.

The movement jarred her and sent throbbing pain through her aching limbs. Sleeping in the bathtub never helped anything, either; she had no idea why she hadn't thought to drag in a sleeping bag and camp out on the floor. Nearly six years of the same routine and she didn't have a decent protocol for this.

Someone nearby was popping off rounds, and it sounded close. Mae shuffled to the window, one of the exits left untouched since it was on the second level. The slant of sunlight told her she'd probably slept until noon. She hadn't heard this much activity in a day or so—were there more of those things outside than before? Were they all working their way into the suburbs?

With a grunt, Mae hefted the window open and peered out, welcoming the draft of fresh, slightly humid breeze that flew into the room.

Her next door neighbor was perched on his roof, dressed to the nines, firing a rifle. If the end of the world hadn't been enough, Mae was sure now that she'd seen everything.

_A three-piece suit, really? Well, that's one way to go, I guess. _

…_Is that a pocket square? Cuff links, too. _

"Jesus," Mae muttered, shaking her head.

She figured he was in the same alpha male mindset of her uncle, protecting and fortifying his home, too stubborn to leave. At least he was more civil to talk to.

Mae leaned her forearms on the windowsill and stuck her head out. There wasn't a lot of distance between houses.

"Mr. Cartwright?" she half-yelled, once he'd paused to reload his weapon. He had the ammunition stocked inside the bedroom window that had given him easy access to the roof.

He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, his bright red hair unkempt. He must have been roasting in that suit. She watched him immediately search out her voice, aware of its source—this wasn't their first bathroom window-to-roof conversation.

"Mae?" he asked. "What on God's green earth are you still doing here?"

She shrugged. "Hell if I know."

"I thought you and your folks had cleared out with the rest of them," Cartwright said. "Word on the street is, everyone's headin' into Atlanta. There's supposed to be a refuge…somethin'. I doubt the roads are passable."

He finished loading the rifle and lifted it, shooting at a few of the swaying corpses in the street. He hit everything in sight except them. A lucky shot caught one of them in the eye socket; Mae saw the spurt of blood from where she stood and fought against nausea.

"We're waiting for the National Guard," Mae said, though there wasn't a hint of conviction in her voice.

Cartwright laughed. "Right," he replied. "Good luck with that one."

Despite herself, Mae smirked. "Yeah." He picked off another corpse, a bullet slicing through its face. "Having fun with target practice?"

"I can't aim for shit."

"I see that."

He poked his finger in her direction, turning from his targets. "Hey, now. You're not supposed to agree with me." Cartwright shouldered his rifle. "It's bad enough I have to aim for the head. You know that, right? That's how it works?"

"Haven't heard anything," Mae confessed.

"Well, you remember that," he told her. "Blow to the head and they're done." He pivoted on a heel, took a few paces to the other side of the roof to survey the neighborhood with his hand pressed to his forehead to block the sun. "Aww, shit."

"What?"

"They just keep coming, these bastards," Cartwright groaned. "A whole group of them headin' this way. I don't have enough ammunition to get them all. At this rate, the creepers will pile up and take this whole place over. You better watch yourself, Mae. All right? You get yourself safe inside or you get out. They'll start tearin' into houses."

"I'll try."

"If you decide to get out, I'll see what I can do to help."

"You be careful, too."

He laughed again, cynically. "Yeah."

* * *

In the end, they did leave. Mae didn't know what had caused her uncle to change his mind, but she had her suspicions it was a mix of her aunt's persistence and the fact that they could no longer ignore the corpses outside. It was impossible at this point—they clogged up the street, bumped into each other, and their snarling groans kept Mae awake at night. She'd tried to block it out, but once they started ramming their skeletal, grotesque bodies against the side of the house, Mae knew it was only a matter of time before they found a way inside. Her uncle and stiff upper lip attitude had to realize by now that no one was coming for them. They were responsible for their own survival.

So, when her aunt knocked on her bedroom door and said, "We're going," Mae grabbed her backpack without question, temporary relief flooding the anxious knot in her stomach.

No one spoke. She was almost thankful for it. They made trips back and forth from the attached garage to the house, fast, as silent as possible, filling the trunk and backseat with everything they had deemed necessary. Mae discreetly stuffed her own food rations into her backpack—not much of it held any real nutritional value, but it brought her satisfaction to have her own supply.

Just in case. For what, she wasn't sure. Maybe to appease the small voice in her head that repeated the mantra: _Run. Keep going. Survive._

It happened to be the same voice that prompted her to grab a crowbar leaning against her uncle's workbench in the garage. She heard Cartwright's advice in her ear: _Blow to the head and they're done. _

Mae seriously doubted her own ability to take out one of those things—_creepers_, he had named them. Taking a crowbar to someone who still looked human seemed too brutal.

She figured, with a darkly sarcastic ghost of a smirk, her uncle wouldn't have any problem.

If anything, it was reassuring to have the idea of protection. Mae slid into the backseat of the car, the crowbar across her lap, one hand gripped around it tight enough to turn her knuckles white. She could hear her pulse in her ears.

"What the hell is that for?" her uncle asked, once he'd shut the driver's side door. He glared at her through the rearview mirror. Her aunt's gaze was out the window, probably trying to memorize the home they were leaving.

"In case we run into trouble," Mae said, grateful she'd found the words. Her voice didn't sound like her own, shaking, soft.

He shook his head and made a noise of disbelief. Mae wished he weren't so tremendously stupid. She second-guessed his capability to go up against those creepers. He wouldn't have the patience to get blood on his tie. For God's sake, he was still dressed like he expected to go into work, like they were about to depart on a daytrip instead of fleeing for their lives.

_What a goddamn idiot_, Mae thought. She refused believe someone could be so delusional. There were _people outside coming back from the dead, wanting to eat their flesh, _what more did it take for him to face reality?

Her aunt reached for her husband's hand across the center console, entwining their fingers.

"I think it's a good idea," she told him. "We should grab a poker from the fireplace, or a shovel…"

Her tone was nearly wistful, bordering on detached. Before her uncle could stop her, she slipped out of the car and put some of her best gardening tools on the floor of the opposite seat. When she'd settled back into the passenger's side, her uncle started up the car without another word.

She grabbed his hand again, for a moment. "Whatever happens, keep driving."

Her uncle pressed the automatic garage door opener, and sunlight crept up from the floor to fill the inside of the car. The noise from the engine had attracted the creepers' attention—Mae watched, mouth agape, as their heads snapped to find them. Framed by light, their awkward, sauntering silhouettes moved toward the garage, their animalistic sounds growing louder.

"Go," her aunt said.

The car surged forward, pushing through the crowd that had formed, knocking the corpses out of its path. Mae saw crimson smeared on the windshield as they turned out of the driveway. The creepers sought them out, flanking the windows, creating something of a horrific tunnel around the car. Mae got her first close-up encounter with them—their gray hands and faces flush against the glass, their skin falling away from their bones, their cloudy eyes locking onto hers but barely seeing.

Human, but not.

It scared her, that these things had once been people with lives, families, jobs…how had the world come down to this?

The car picked up speed and tore through the horde, taking a sharp turn around the winding street to the exit of their neighborhood. Mae watched the creepers shuffle after the car, shoulders bumping, feet clumsy. She clutched the crowbar and pulled her hood up to block them out until the relative safety she once knew became a speck on the horizon.


End file.
